Spock had reported to the briefing room directly from the bridge, where Number One was presently in command. He wondered what this was about.
“You have my full attention, sir.”
“I would be stunned to hear otherwise,” Pike said, sounding amused for reasons Spock couldn’t quite isolate. The human sense of humor often resisted easy analysis. “You’re familiar with the U.S.S. Intrepid, of course.”
“Naturally,” Spock replied. The Intrepid was a Constitution-class starship manned by an all-Vulcan crew. It was felt by most Vulcans that a homogenous crew was the most logical choice, promoting greater efficiency and cohesion. A crew sharing the same background, culture, environmental preferences, and, of course, a commitment to logic above all else was bound to function better as a unit—or so the theory went.
Granted, it could be argued that such homogeneity ran counter to the ancient principle of IDIC, which exalted infinite diversity in infinite combinations, but most Vulcans felt that holding fast to their own time-honored customs and traditions in no way excluded respecting the ways of other species and civilizations. Vulcans had never sought to impose their own logic on others, no matter how rigorously Vulcans themselves were expected to adhere to the teachings of Surak, and regardless of how manifestly obvious it was that the Vulcan way was preferable. If there was an inherent contradiction between prizing homogeneity and diversity, it was one that most Vulcans managed to reconcile without too much effort.
But Spock was not like most Vulcans.
“A position as first officer has opened up aboard the Intrepid,” Pike disclosed. “I’d be sorry to lose you, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t inform you of this opportunity. It would mean a promotion for you, as well as opportunity to be among your own people.” He chuckled softly. “I can’t imagine it’s always easy for you, rubbing shoulders with us shamelessly emotional humans day after day.”
It can be challenging, Spock admitted to himself. He thought back to that earlier moment on the bridge when he’d held his tongue regarding the distance to Cypria III to avoid bruising Lieutenant Tyler’s ego and feelings. Accommodating and making allowances for his crewmates’ volatile emotions and frequent lapses of logic had become a routine part of his daily existence, like the constant pull of a heavy-gravity planet that one gradually learns to live with, despite the perpetual strain on one’s system. It might be a relief, in that respect, to dwell among Vulcans again. He would no longer have a constant barrage of emotional displays chipping away at his own hard-won self-control. He could just be Spock, one Vulcan among many, and not the Vulcan aboard the ship.
Then again, there were reasons that he had left Vulcan and joined Starfleet in the first place . . .
“I hope that I have not given you any reason to believe that I am dissatisfied with my posting aboard the Enterprise,” Spock said. “Or with my fellow crew members.”
“Not at all,” Pike assured him. “I’m only thinking of your own best interests here. You deserve to know what your options are.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Spock found himself oddly conflicted by this unexpected turn of events. Usually when faced with a choice, he could readily determine the logical course of action, but at this moment he truly did not know what to think. At present he was third in command aboard the Enterprise, after the captain and Number One; strictly from the standpoint of career advancement, the decision was obvious. Nor did he have any doubts about his ability to fulfill the duties of first officer. He deemed himself both ready and able to take on a position of greater responsibility and authority. Advancing to first officer aboard another Constitution-class starship was the next logical step.
And yet . . .
“You will always be a child of two worlds,” his mother had once said. The words came back to him now as he contemplated the choice before him. What was preferable: to be the only Vulcan among a crew of humans, or the only half-human aboard a ship of Vulcans?
“With your permission, sir, I think it best to meditate on the matter rather than make a hasty decision. May I give you my answer shortly, perhaps after the present crisis has been resolved?”
This was a logical approach, so why did it feel like he was stalling?
“By all means, Mister Spock. Take your time. I suspect we’re going to have our hands full soon enough.” He looked Spock squarely in the eye. “Just know that you have my full support whatever you decide, and you can count on a glowing recommendation should you choose to apply for the post aboard the Intrepid.”
“Again, my thanks, Captain.”
“You’re welcome, Lieutenant.” He sifted through the reports before him. “Let’s talk again later . . . assuming any of us survive this damn fever, that is.”
The control console on the table chimed urgently, signaling a transmission from the bridge. Spock routed the signal to the viewscreen, where Number One’s image promptly appeared. The familiar steel-gray confines of the bridge could be spied in the background.
“Pike here,” the captain said crisply. “What is it, Number One?”
“A complication, sir. We’ve received what appears to be a distress signal . . . from Klingon space.”
Spock raised an eyebrow. Calling such news a complication was an understatement, to say the least. Pike rose immediately to his feet, worry written on his face.
“We’re on our way, Number One. Pike out.”
Spock hurried after the captain.
Two
Pike marched briskly onto the bridge, followed closely by Spock, who had ridden up in the turbolift with him. “Captain on the bridge,” Number One announced as she surrendered the captain’s chair to him, returning to her regular post at the helm controls. Pike took his seat while Spock reported to the science station. Pike noted that Boyce had beaten them to the bridge, no doubt responding to the emergency as well. He hoped the doctor’s services would not be required.
“All right,” Pike said. “Fill me in.”
“Aye, sir,” Chief Petty Officer Garrison reported from the communications station. A stolid, brown-haired Starfleet veteran, he had come up through the ranks to attain his current position. Pike knew him to be steady and reliable, even in a crisis. “The signal is coming from a Cyprian trading vessel, the Ilion, en route from a star system presently under the control of the Klingons. Details are sketchy, but the nature of the signal indicates that the ship is in serious jeopardy.”
“Have you communicated directly with the Ilion’s captain or crew?” Pike asked.
“No, sir. I’ve tried hailing them, but no response yet. Only an automated emergency beacon, repeating over and over.”
“Understood,” Pike said. “Keep trying, Mister Garrison.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Just for a moment, Pike flashed back to the bogus “distress signal” that had lured the Enterprise to Talos IV not very long ago, but he quickly pushed those troubling memories aside. He had more pressing matters to deal with now.
Two of them, in fact.
First the fever, now this, he thought. Even in deep space, it never rains but it pours.
“A Cyprian trader?” He glanced at Number One. “I thought you said the Cyprians never left their home planet?”
“I said ‘seldom,’ Captain,” she reminded him. “And most Cyprians don’t. This trader is obviously an exception.”
So it appears, Pike thought, wishing that the adventurous trader had stayed home. “Time to intercept?”
“Roughly five hours, sir,” Tyler answered, as though he’d anticipated the captain’s query. “But it means detouring from our present course to Cypria III . . . and bringing us within spitting distance of the Klingon border.”
Damn, Pike thought. Even without the Klingons to factor in, the timing of this emergency could not be worse. Boyce needed his ryetalyn to begin treating the crew and every delay gave the fever more time to spread throughout the ship, yet they could hardly ignore a ship in distress. That went against his every i
nstinct as a captain and Starfleet officer.
“Duly noted, Mister Tyler, but our duty is clear. Plot an intercept course with the Ilion.” He glanced over at the comm station. “Mister Garrison, signal the Ilion that we’re on our way.”
“Aye, sir,” the enlisted man said.
Boyce joined Pike in the command well. Pike noted that the doctor looked rather older and more haggard than usual, as though he was already worn out from dealing with the flood of fever patients into his sickbay. Boyce leaned wearily against the sturdy dark gray safety rail circling the command area. He didn’t say anything, but Pike knew Boyce had to be distressed by this unexpected turn of events. White knuckles gripped the handle of a portable medkit, while the doctor’s jaw tightened. He seemed to be biting back a complaint.
“Sorry, Doctor,” Pike said, “but I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait a little longer for that ryetalyn.”
“So it seems,” Boyce muttered unhappily. “Mind you, I can’t fault you for responding to an SOS—I’d probably do the same if I was in your shoes—but this is time we can ill afford to lose. I’m doing what I can to slow the progress of the fever but, at the rate things are going, people are going to be dying by the end of the week. I’m trying to put out a forest fire without water.”
Number One spoke up from the helm. “Captain, a suggestion. Why don’t I take a shuttle to Cypria III to obtain the ryetalyn while the Enterprise continues on to assist the Ilion. We can rendezvous later, after you have dealt with whatever emergency has befallen the Cyprian vessel.”
“You know, that’s not a bad idea,” Boyce said to Pike. “Time is of the essence if we’re to avoid becoming a plague ship, so the sooner we get that ryetalyn, the better. If nothing else, Number One can make contact with the Cyprians and get the ball rolling, so that the ryetalyn will be processed and ready for us when we’re done with this rescue mission.”
Assuming the Cyprians are cooperative, Pike thought, which isn’t necessarily a sure thing.
But that was a bridge they’d have to cross if they came to it. At present, Number One’s suggestion sounded like their best bet for getting the ryetalyn in a timely fashion.
“Let’s do it,” he decided, glancing at Boyce. “What about you, Doctor? Do you have to accompany her to the colony?”
Boyce shook his head. “I can be more useful here, dealing with my patients in sickbay. Plus, you may need me on hand to deal with any casualties from the Ilion.” He turned toward the helm. “I can brief Number One on what I need to carry out the treatment.”
“Just inform me of what you require, Doctor,” she said, rising from her seat. A thought creased her brow. “I do have one concern. Is there any danger of spreading the infection to Cypria III? I would not want my landing party to become a vector for disease.”
“That shouldn’t be an issue,” Boyce assured her. “The Cyprians are humanoid, but not human. By all accounts, they’re immune to Rigelian fever. Nevertheless, we should take the reasonable precaution of screening you and the rest of your party to make sure that none of you are infected yet.”
Pike agreed. “See to it, Doctor.”
“I am certain you will find me quite free of contagion,” Number One stated confidently. “My immune system is, as you know, exceptional.”
Pike believed it. “Number One” was not just her rank. It was a description that had fit her perfectly even before she was named first in her class at Starfleet Academy four years in a row. The Illyrians were a people who aspired to excellence, physically and mentally, and the Enterprise’s first officer was a prodigy even by the standards of her own perfectionist kind, who practiced a form of selective breeding just short of genetic manipulation. She had always been “Number One” at everything: studies, athletics, you name it. Her superior intelligence and rigorous self-discipline could be, frankly, a bit intimidating at times, but Pike knew he was lucky to have her as his executive officer. He trusted her implicitly. If anybody could get that ryetalyn in time, she could.
“Just the same,” he said, “get yourself and your team checked out before you go.”
“Of course, Captain,” she agreed readily. “A prudent precaution.” She turned over the helm to Lieutenant Sita Mohindas, who was standing by to relieve her. “Well, Doctor, shall we get to it? Time is short, after all.”
Pike trusted Number One to pick out her own team, including a couple of security officers. The Cyprians were supposed to be friendly enough, but it always paid to be cautious when visiting an alien world. He’d been brutally reminded of that on Rigel VII, at the cost of three lives. The deaths of those crew members still weighed heavily on him.
“Good luck, Number One, and be careful.”
“I always am, sir.” A hint of a smile lifted the corners of her lips. “Give my apologies to the Klingons, should you encounter them.”
“Here’s hoping that won’t be necessary,” Pike replied.
The turbolift carried her and Boyce away, and Pike hit the intercom button on his armrest. “Captain to hangar deck. Prepare Kepler for immediate departure.”
The Kepler was one of the Enterprise’s two shuttlecrafts. He wanted the shuttle ready to launch as soon as Boyce gave the landing party the thumbs-up, before the Enterprise’s detour took them too far off their course for Cypria III. The shuttles were capable of warp speed, but, given the ticking clock in sickbay, every light-year counted.
He turned his attention back to the crisis at hand. “Mister Garrison, any word from the Ilion on the nature of their emergency?”
“Negative, sir,” the man reported. “Sorry, Captain.”
Pike frowned. As captain he was responsible for the lives and safety of more than two hundred crew members serving under his command, and he didn’t like putting them at risk with so little information to go on. I’d feel a damn sight better about answering that SOS, he thought, if I had a better idea of what was waiting for us down the road—practically in the Klingons’ backyard.
An epidemic was bad enough. He didn’t want to butt heads with the Empire, too.
Three
“Captain!” Garrison called out. “The Ilion is being pursued by the Klingons!”
Pike sat up straight in his chair. Hours had passed since the Kepler had left for Cypria III in search of the ryetalyn. The Enterprise, racing at top speed, had made good time responding to the Ilion’s distress signal, but just what sort of conflict were they flying into here?
“Give me more, Mister Garrison,” Pike ordered. “What are you picking up?”
“I’m intercepting messages from the Klingons to the Ilion, sir. They’re demanding that the Ilion lower its shields and surrender.”
Surrender? Pike thought. That doesn’t sound like the Klingons.
“Any response from the Ilion?”
“No, Captain.” Garrison fiddled with his earpiece. “Only the same urgent distress signal.”
Just our luck, Pike thought. He had hoped that they could affect a rescue and get in and out of this region quickly, without encountering any Klingons, but apparently that wasn’t in the cards. The Enterprise was already on the fringes of the disputed space claimed by the Empire. He would have to tread carefully here to avoid provoking an armed confrontation—or starting a war.
“Visual?” he asked.
“Coming within range, Captain,” Spock reported from the science station. He passed his hand over the controls. “Increasing magnification now.”
The Ilion appeared on the viewer, small and blurry at first, but rapidly sharpening into focus. Only slightly larger than a Starfleet shuttlecraft, it resembled a rust-colored egg with short stubby wings above its glowing cobalt nacelles. Its smooth, streamlined contours, well-suited to flying through planetary atmospheres as well as deep space, matched the profile for Cyprian spacecraft found in the Enterprise’s computer libraries, although some of the outer fittings appeared to have been refurbished from other vessels. A second-hand hydrogen intake unit looked distinctly Regulan in orig
in, while the meteoroid sensor showed evidence of Tellarite design. Hull panels of varying hue, texture, and newness, as well as other replacement parts and signs of general wear and tear, suggested that the rugged little vessel had been around the block a few times and seen better days, even before it ran afoul of some irate Klingons.
And those Klingons had obviously gotten a few licks in already, despite the Ilion’s evasive maneuvers. Fresh scorch marks blackened the wings, telling Pike that the Klingons had attempted to disable the Ilion’s compact warp nacelles. Vapors vented from hairline fractures in the hull, while the ship’s overtaxed shields were flickering visibly, on the verge of failing completely. Flashing traceries of bright blue Cherenkov radiation revealed a worryingly patchy deflector grid around the embattled ship, enough to keep its passengers from being snagged by Klingon transporter beams, perhaps, but not enough to withstand a concentrated attack. The Ilion zigzagged toward the Enterprise, veering erratically from port to starboard and up and down, in a last-ditch attempt to evade another hit from the Klingons. It rolled and banked as though piloted by a lunatic—or someone with nothing left to lose.
Clearly that distress signal had been no false alarm.
“Whoa,” Lieutenant Mohindas exclaimed at helm. A slim, dark-haired woman who hailed from the Delhi city-state, she was an excellent pilot and all-around officer. “What do you think they did to upset the Klingons?”
“Breathe?” Tyler suggested, sitting beside her at the nav controls. “Since when do Klingons need a reason to go on the warpath?”
Pike noted the crew members’ remarks. Under ordinary circumstances, he would caution Tyler against stereotyping an entire alien species, but this time he let it pass. The Klingons were quick to anger—and nobody you wanted to run up against in a dark corner of space. If there was a way to get along peacefully with the Empire, the Federation sure hadn’t found it yet.